Passion (21 page)

W
hatever else he was, John Smith was definitely talented in the telling of tales.

He understood the art of storytelling, Teryl thought. It showed in the way he used his voice, in his choice of words, in the
pauses that paced his story. Some phrases were pure images. Others were stripped bare, blunt. Almost every thought he spoke
of himself was brutal and unforgiving.

And virtually everything he said sounded believable.

He had told her about writing the outline for
Resurrection,
the story that had been born of his brother’s death seventeen years ago. It was autobiographical, he said—and the real Simon
had also said—but not so clearly autobiographical that she could say with conviction, yes, this book was derived from his
life. The feelings were there, though—the emotions, the losses, the grief. Based on what little of the book she’d read, she
could easily see John giving life to Colin Summers.

But that didn’t mean he actually had.

He had covered up to the point some eight months ago when writer’s block had set in, and then he had fallen silent. Now he
was staring gloomily out the window, watching the rain that hadn’t slackened one bit, thinking about something personal and,
judging from his expression, very painful.

She was thinking, too. About the fact that he knew more
about
Resurrection
’s story line than anyone out there should. About the fact that he knew details about Simon’s writer’s block and his missed
deadline that no one else should know. About the fact that everything he said
sounded
true.

It
felt
true, even though it couldn’t possibly be… could it?

What if this John Smith really
was
Simon Tremont? What if the man in New Orleans really was an impostor? What if
he
was the delusional one?

She wanted instinctively to deny it. It was, as she’d just told John, a fantastic story—too fantastic to believe. But if she
believed that
he
could be delusional enough to convince himself that he was really Simon Tremont, why couldn’t the same be possible of the
other
John Smith who was claiming to be Simon? If she believed that this John had suffered enough grief, guilt, and sorrow to make
taking on a different identity understandable, then she had to believe that the other could also be capable of the same suffering
and the same decisions.

After all, this man sitting beside her knew that Simon Tremont was merely a pseudonym. He knew—as so very few Tremont fans
did—that his real name was John Smith.

He was from Colorado, where Simon had lived the past eleven years. He knew Simon’s Denver address. He knew that it was only
a few months ago that Simon had moved from Colorado.

He knew that she was fascinated with Liane from the Thibodeaux series. He knew that Simon had never had writer’s block until
this book, that he had met or beaten every deadline. He knew when Simon had stopped writing, knew when the deadline had come
and gone with no book to show for it. He knew about the notes Rebecca had sent Simon, friendly little reminders at first,
only to soon become touched with concern. He knew when those notes had stopped.

But
she
knew that they hadn’t stopped. The address had simply been changed from the mailbox place in Denver to a rural route number
outside Richmond. Rebecca hadn’t stopped the gently prodding notes until the day Simon had shown up at the office to reassure
her in person. Teryl had
been at a dental appointment that afternoon, and she had deeply regretted missing the chance to meet her idol.

John knew so much. Could he be telling the truth? Was there any chance in the world that he
was
Simon Tremont?

No.
Because there was one major undeniable, unquestionable piece of evidence in the other John’s favor: back home in Rebecca’s
office and in Candace Baker’s office in New York, there were copies of a manuscript containing over 175,000 words which brilliantly
followed the outline submitted over a year ago and which also included changes made to that outline by the author via correspondence
with his editor in the interim. Every single word seemed to prove that this man wasn’t Simon Tremont. Whatever claims he made,
whatever he believed, he couldn’t claim ownership of that manuscript.

Despite what he knew about
Resurrection,
he hadn’t written it.

That meant he couldn’t possibly be Tremont.

A streak of lightning flashed across the sky at the same time the thunder rumbled. It made Teryl flinch, and it brought John
out of his preoccupation to wearily continue. “For the last eight months, I’ve done everything but write. I’ve hiked so many
miles in the mountains that I left trails where none had ever been. I knew every curve and every stone and half the fish in
the stream that ran past the house. I watched TV and listened to music and read months-old newspapers. I knew how much I was
drinking, how much I was sleeping, and how damned little I was writing.” He paused, and his voice grew lower, even more somber.
“The book was killing me.”

She wondered how it would feel to do the same job and do it brilliantly day after day for eleven years, then to awaken one
morning to find out that you could no longer do it. Writers wrote; it was that simple. What happened to them when they no
longer could? What happened when they faced a blank computer screen, or pad or notebook, and nothing came out? What became
of a writer who couldn’t write?

“I kept trying,” he went on, “but where I used to write twenty pages a day without stopping, now I was struggling to
do four or five. Where I kept ninety-five percent of my original work, suddenly I was doing second and third and even fourth
drafts. Finally, last week, I decided I needed a break. I hadn’t been in to the city for months. I would go into Denver and
relax—do some shopping, pick up my mail, call my sister. I would forget about work for a while, and when I went home, I would
be able to work again. At least, that was what I hoped.”

But there was no mail—no Tremont mail, at least—waiting for him in Denver, Teryl knew, because Simon Tremont had sent a change
of address to both the agency and Morgan-Wilkes back in February. She remembered getting the note in the mail—remembered wondering
briefly why he had chosen to move to Richmond, remembered far more her excitement. Now that he was living in the area, she
had thought, maybe she would get to meet him.

Wishes were funny things. Four months ago she had been wishing to meet Simon. Now that she had, she wished she hadn’t.

“I drove to Denver Friday afternoon and picked up my mail. Normally, after four months, the mail would fill a couple of boxes.
Instead, all I had was foreign copies of two books and a half dozen letters from Janie. There was nothing from Rebecca, nothing
but the foreign editions from Morgan-Wilkes. There were no reminders about the deadline, no fan mail, no royalty check. I
thought it was odd, but it was too late to call Rebecca. I figured I would take care of it later.”

The next morning the announcement that Simon Tremont was coming out of seclusion to do an interview in New Orleans was all
over the news. She had seen it on television herself, had read it in the paper. Surely John had seen it, too. Had it pushed
him over the edge? Until that time, had he kept his delusions to himself? Had the fantasy that
he
was the world’s most popular author been a private one that only he enjoyed, or had he shared it with others? If he had,
if he had made claims that were now being publicly refuted, had the news been more than he could handle? Was that what had
compelled him to travel to New Orleans, to take her
hostage, and make this long trip to Richmond seeking evidence that didn’t exist?

He
had
heard the news on television, he acknowledged, and had confirmed it in the Denver, Chicago, and Dallas newspapers that the
hotel had obtained at his request. He had known it would be impossible to reach Rebecca at the office on a Saturday and equally
impossible for him to stay in Colorado and do nothing, and so he had come up with the plan to go to New Orleans and later,
if necessary, to Richmond and New York. He had gone home to pack, to get all the paperwork that would prove his claims—paperwork
which was destroyed by fire soon after he got there. Destroyed, along with the house, by a fire caused by three bombs.

So he said.

Fire she might have believed, but bombs… Bombs made an outrageous story even more so. People simply didn’t go around planting
bombs in reclusive writers’ houses. The man she knew as Simon, while not the nicest or most likable man she’d ever met, certainly
didn’t seem the mad bomber type. He didn’t strike her as unbalanced… although in describing his personality, the word
egomaniacal
did come rather quickly to mind.

So the man held a high opinion of himself. So he was arrogant, obnoxious, and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand
on end. That didn’t make him an impostor. Or an arsonist. Or an attempted murderer.

When she finally spoke, she made a conscious effort to disguise her skepticism. “So you believe someone destroyed your house
in order to destroy the personal records that document your writing career.”

He looked at her then, his expression hopeless. “In part.”

She didn’t want to know, didn’t want to hear him say the rest of it, but she asked anyway. It was as if she couldn’t help
herself. “And the rest?”

“The son of a bitch can’t claim to be Simon Tremont if the real Simon Tremont is around to prove him a fraud. In order to
continue being Simon, he needed—needs—to get rid of me.”

Delusional
and
paranoid. God help her.

Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face, because unexpectedly he laughed, a bitter chuckle that drained
away as soon as it formed. “I don’t blame you for thinking I’m nuts. I stood there last week looking at what was left of my
house, thinking someone had tried to kill me, and wondering if it had something to do with all those news stories about Tremont.
I thought maybe the last seventeen years had finally gotten to me. I thought maybe I really was crazy. But, Teryl, I swear
to you, everything I’ve said is absolutely true.
I
created Simon Tremont.
I
wrote those books. Now someone’s trying to take it all away from me, and I’ve got to stop him. I have to.”

She stared silently out the windshield. The glass had been treated with something that made the raindrops bead up and immediately
slide away. She could use a coating of the stuff on her own car. She was always having trouble seeing in the rain. D.J., whose
prize possession was her black Camaro, said it was because Teryl never washed the car or cleaned the windshield. Her father
said it was because wiper blades needed changing at least once in a blue moon. She supposed they were both right. Car maintenance
didn’t come high on her list of priorities.

And everything on that list had just been bumped one slot lower by one major new priority: getting John Smith out of her life.

Even if some pathetic and traitorous part of her would, in some way, miss him.

No, not exactly miss him. She would miss the potential she’d seen in him that first night. She would miss the charming, interesting,
sensual, intelligent man she’d met Tuesday.

Lightning brightened the southern sky, and in the near distance a small explosion sounded as a transformer blew. As the lights
on the opposite side of the street went dark, Teryl shivered in spite of the heat inside the truck. When she was a kid, storms
had often played a role in those nightmares of hers. At times, the storm merely induced the dream. Other times, it was a part
of the dream, the rumble of thunder and the heavy, threatening darkness broken only sporadically by the brilliant strikes
of lightning combining to create a menacing
atmosphere more than capable of scaring a cowardly small child back to wakefulness.

“Are you okay?”

She felt John’s gaze on her, on her hands clenched tightly together in her lap, but she didn’t look at him. With the truck’s
engine turned off, it had taken only moments for the steamy heat to replace the cooler air inside. Now it was hotter inside
than out, because they were shut off from the rain’s cooling effect. Her skin was clammy, her cheeks flushed, her forehead
dotted with perspiration, and the air was almost too heavy to breathe. Was she okay? Not by a long shot… but then, she hadn’t
been okay since Wednesday morning when she had foolishly insisted that he couldn’t just kidnap her and he had calmly replied,
“I already have.”

Without waiting any longer for an answer, he started the truck, turned the air conditioner to high, and directed both center
vents her way. The cold air made her shiver and immediately began easing the tightness in her chest.

“Let’s go on,” he suggested, shifting in the seat, readjusting his seat belt. “We can probably drive out of the storm before
long.”

Aware that he would rather wait it out—after the accident that killed his brother, he must have a few nightmares of his own
about driving in hazardous conditions, about risking the loss of control—Teryl was grateful for his offer.

Although the rain didn’t stop, they left the thunder and lightning behind before they’d gone more than ten miles. She let
the last taut muscles, those that ran from her shoulders up through her neck, relax and gave a loud, noisy sigh of relief.
“Normally daytime storms don’t bother me so much,” she said, feeling foolish now that the anxiety had lessened. “I think it
was just a combination of the storm and the heat and the mugginess.” And the conversation she’d been having with the man who
had kidnapped her.

John glanced at her but didn’t say anything.

“My mother says everyone has quirks. She’s afraid of water. I don’t like thunderstorms.”

“And I think I’m a world-famous author.”

Back to that again. No matter how much she disliked the
topic, no matter how uncomfortable it made her, everything led back to it. And why not? It was the reason she was here. It
was the reason John had sought her out in the first place. The reason he’d offered to go sight-seeing with her in the Quarter.
The reason he’d gone back to the hotel with her. It was the reason… She stiffened, not wanting to complete the thought, fighting
it and—feeling like an idiot—having to face it anyway.